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Loft Tales

It is a very rare occasion to meet Mother Nature, particularly when her name is Sara, she wears a long blond wig, and stands over six feet tall.

And, it is even rarer to meet the Queen Bee, who, is not a queen, but a shorter version of Sara with the name of Kara.

Yep. Sara and Kara. Mother Nature and the Queen Bee.

And where did I meet them? But, of course, at the Bloomfest! Get it?

This fun music and arts festival last Saturday honored actor/activist Joel Bloom - who many refer to as the "patron saint of the Arts District." I never met Joel - but from all who knew him, he was one hell of a guy.

Lots of people showed up to celebrate, eat from the food trucks, schmooze, ogle over the art, party hearty, and revel in the afternoon heat. No one counted on the cement truck crashing through a warehouse ramp, causing an art vendor traffic jam. That is a whole other story.

But before I go on, I will say the fireman who would not let me walk through the orange tape to see the upside down truck was NOT VERY NICE.

Back to how I met Mother Nature and the Queen Bee.

I was getting ready to leave the festival, and I saw them standing near the food trucks. They just caught my eye. Oh please, they caught everyone's eye. So, being the shy retiring type, I walked up to them and introduced myself. Thus, a conversation ensued.

Seems these two roommates, who live in West Hollywood, with a trunk full of costumes - which they pull out for various LA occasions that catch their fancy - love to dance, and...roll the drums...both are aspiring comedians.

Who would have guessed?

Well, anyway, I got into a conversation with Sara. I told her that I was the founder of Spirited Woman, a leading women's empowerment community, and she told me that most women comedians are not treated fairly. Men get all the pay. It's very hard to get bookings. Men are considered funnier. And on and on.

She was very serious and very intelligent about the whole subject. I wanted her to whisk out her magic wand and sprinkle fairy dust on herself. I guess she left those things in her trunk.

So today, in addition to honoring Joel for helping to make downtown DOWNTOWN, I am writing this post in honor of Sara.

Ninety years ago this week, (actually on August 18), women were given the right to vote. And Sara - I am sure women comedians will not have to wait another 90 years to achieve RESPECT. Just never let the dream go. AND BELIEVE.

When I needed a pick me up, I walked over to Origami's. Corner of Third and Spring. They had the best happy hour in downtown. That is until they changed chefs - but hey, this tale is not about chefs it is about...gossip and body parts.

One night, after working for countless hours in my loft, I put on my flip flops, grabbed my purse, and headed over for a $3 glass of wine and half-price sushi appetizers. Easy. Right? Until...I got to Origami's.

That is when I met the new bartender. He had tattoos all over his arms, a pierced ear - well now that I think about it many pierces in both ears, and he was really in the fashion business and a designer but he was a bartender on the side - if you catch my drift.

I asked him for a glass of wine on the happy hour menu and he said that it had ended five minutes ago and that he couldn't give me the happy hour price. Pleeeeeze I begged. "Nope, no can do - the computer won't take it."

"Oh, I am so disappointed," I said. Resigned to my fate.

Then, he said, with glee, "But, there is no happy hour prices when it comes to wine - all night it is $3 per glass." Hah, hah, hah, he laughed. Oh what a guy.

But that was only the beginning of my night. Seated next to me were what appeared to be two regulars. Since Origami is on the first floor of the Douglas Building, it was no surprise that one of the "regulars" lived in the Douglas. Not one to miss a beat (that would be me), I said, "I live across the street in the Pan American Lofts and I saw a Naked Guy on your roof."

Well, you would have thought I dropped a bomb. The woman regular said in a huffy voice, "There are no naked men on our roof. That would be impossible. But......there is a NAKED WOMAN in your building."

"What???????" I asked. "How do you know that?" "Because, the tenants who live on THAT SIDE of our building have seen her."

"What floor?" I asked. "I have no idea," she answered, "but.......apparently she prances around naked all day with her shades OPEN."

Okay, it was clear that we were in a contest of one upmanship. We glared at one another. Then, she toasted the other regular. I toasted the tattooed bartender, who I clearly had nothing in common with. She embellished her story. I embellished mine.

Until we finally left. Exhausted.

But, between you and me, there was ABSOLUTELY a naked guy on the roof of the Douglas Building and her story was simply bull....

Thank you for listening. And before I forget, I rarely walked around naked.

I left my loft, but my bed is still there. This is such a downtown story.

As all downtowners know - things just sort of show up when you need them. I believe it is a proven downtown karma fact.

You need a purple wine glass - your neighbor has one. A big painting to cover the peeling paint on the wall - an artist friend comes over with one. Six chairs for a dinner party - voila - they are there.

Stuff just shows up. I manifested all sorts of things in my loft. I never worried about it. I just knew - that I would be provided for with all sorts of WEIRD STUFF. And I was.

But what I didn't know was that I would be part of the cycle. The flow. The drama. The karma. Oh keep quiet Nancy, back to the story.

Well.....here's the short version of the long version.

As most of you know, I moved ALL MY STUFF out of my loft into a new loft downstairs because my landlord was moving back in. New place turned out to be toxic. I lasted 10 days. The management guy told me that every day MY STUFF stayed in the unit he'd charge me.

Panicked, scared, and tight on cash, I called my former landlord and screamed into my cell, "JULIO, JULIO, JULIO - I know you're planning to move into MY LOFT (the nerve, since it was his), but I need to move all my stuff back in. I promise I'll keep it there for only three days."

"Huh?" he said calmly. "I thought you had already moved out. Didn't I meet you for that?" "Yes, yes, yes, but I'm being poisoned and I've gotttttttttttt to get out of my new loft."

Knowing me for 16 months, a woman of her word, not a crazed maniac (even though I was acting pretty crazed), he said one word, "Okay."

Manna from the heavens. So, back I went, the way I came, and moved ALL MY STUFF back into the loft that I had moved out of 10 days earlier. I know, it's complicated. But it happened. Out, in, back in, out.

What a mess. Yada, yada, yada. And getting back to the short version - I got everything out in three days except my bed. My wonderful, comfy 15-year-old queen size bed. The one I wrote about in this post. The one in this
picture.

And, why did I leave the bed? Because - A) I had no new place to move it to. B) I didn't have a car big enough to put it in. And....roll the drums, C) When I had met Julio right before I moved out (the first time) - he said with soul full eyes as he touched my bed - "Your bed seems soft and comfy. Did I tell you that I will be sleeping on an inflatable bed until I get my own bed?"

That was the clincher. The one that tugged at my old Pisces heart. The motive that really kept me from moving my bed (the second time).

So when Julio finally moved in, he called me and said, "I noticed you left your bed." Basically, it was like noticing an elephant in a shed. "Perhaps, I can buy it from you."

"No Julio - use it until I figure out where I'm moving to permanently. Right now, I'm sort of a gypsy."

It was then, that I realized that all this downtown "stuff just shows up" thing was really about paying it forward. To some one who needs it more than you.

That's Julio in the top picture playing his guitar on my bed in his loft. Who knows when I'll get it back. I don't care.

Because it's not about "my bed." It's about showing up when it matters.

When I was a little girl, that's all I really had. Sure, there were dolls and things, but I relied on my imagination to survive emotionally.

The story of my complicated childhood is long (like - who's isn't?) - and to shorten my tale - one day I dreamed I was a fairy princess living amongst magical frogs. Another - mystery sleuth Nancy Drew solving crimes. Another - I was on an African safari searching for elephants.

Go figure.

But, it was my imagination that kept me going. Onto the next adventure of my mind. Onto happiness and the willingness to never give up.

So, it is with a saddened heart, that I write to all of you that I had to move out of my new loft less than two weeks after I moved my furniture in.

Last week I went to my doctor. I told him about the severe physical reaction I was having in the loft - I could go into details, but - he said very firmly, "Here's the deal kid, it's either your health or the unit. YOU NEED TO LEAVE THE LOFT."

He sort of smacked me on the side of my head with a decision I dreaded to make. Downtown was my home. What about my friends in the building? What about my friends outside of the building? This blog. My life. My finances. I could go on and on, but I won't.

There isn't a one of you that doesn't understand the stress of this situation. Emotional. Physical. Mental.

Yes, most readers of this blog live in California where many of you will say - "I know, there is a reason for this Nancy. You'll see it's for your higher good...and, and, and..."

Right now though, I don't see the reason. I don't feel the reason. All I know is that old feather-face got me at the ATM on Spring Street a few weeks ago, before I moved into this new loft, and it didn't bring me luck.

As I sit here posting in Century City, I will use my vivid imagination and all my fantastic memories of my downtown life to write Tales of Downtown, tell my stories, and be there in spirit until I find a new place (again).

And the end of this tale - kid - is for me to say to you, "Always use your imagination to take you to places you want to go."

Today, I am filing this post from my parent's condo in Century City. Since I live in a loft in downtown and write about my adventures from there - I'm sure you've figured out something is up.

OH YES IT IS. That is why it's taken me so long to write this post. I apologize for missing a week. I just didn't know what to say.

But inspiration came to me last night in the form of Cameron Diaz.

As a little back story - I moved into my "new loft" on Sunday, April 18th - since then I have not been able to sleep in the unit for six nights - due to a severe reaction to the cleaning fluids used to clean it as well as MORE YUCKY STUFF that I will fill you in about later.

Right now though I want to tell you about my friends.

I am blessed with many wonderful, caring friends. Many of whom have gone "way beyond" to help me this week - one of the hardest in my life. I refer to them as saints. St. Stacy, St. Susan, St. Betty, St. Frederica, St. Ruth, St. Peter, St. Marc, St. Jaimi, St. Dawn and on and on. Boy, am I lucky.

St. Susan, who in real life is known as Susan Miller, is the founder of Astrology Zone, a successful internet company. She lives in New York and we're close friends. I greatly admire her. Not only do millions visit her site monthly, but she developed an astrology "software" program before anyone knew that "soft" and "ware" went together, and her own mobile application - way ahead of others, too. This, in addition to raising two daughters solo.

A famous astrologer, she happened to be in LA this week. Knowing what I was going through, she insisted on taking me to dinner last night. "Nancy, you need to eat!"

Just as I arrived at Susan's daughter's apartment in West Hollywood to pick her up, I got a call from her. "Nancy, I'm at the Chateau Marmont. Can you pick me up here?"

What? Frustrated and exhausted from my loft ordeal, I screamed into my cell, "I don't know where the Chateau Marmont is!" Actually, I did, but I had forgotten and besides I was already at the place where I was suppose to pick her up!

"I'll put my friend on the phone to help you," she said.

MOST DEFINITELY NOT my thoughtful charming self, I rudely said, "Geez, can you drive Susan to the restaurant? What about a cab?" Her friend answered very sweetly - "I have a car, but I can't drive it. Sure, if you want I'll put her in a cab. But it's really close. All you have to do is go two blocks east and make a left on Crescent Heights and then another left on Sunset."

"Okay, I said begrudgingly, I'll be there in eight minutes!" And, I'm thinking why can't she drive her car?

When I pulled into the hotel's parking lot, Susan and I waved at each other - and in the corner of my eye I noticed her friend standing next to her.

Oh-my-god. Her "friend" was Cameron Diaz. I was rude to Cameron Diaz. And Cameron Diaz was walking to my car!

"I swear to you, I am not my normal self. I was talking to you? You are so adorable. Prettier than in the movies. Honestly, I've just had a really bad week." "I know, she said, "Susan told me, and I wanted to come down and meet you."

"Really?" Then I started babbling - how I was having so much difficulty, and I knew that one of my loft property management guys was single, and if she could just talk to him, I'm sure everything would be okay. And how about if I drove her downtown, and....

....Without a stitch of make-up on, looking beyond stunning, she smiled her gorgeous smile, giggled her famous giggle, and said she would help but that she needed to leave now and she gave Susan and I more directions.

I was ready to kill Susan. "Why didn't you tell me she was "the friend?" "I did!" Then she said, Cameron was at the hotel to help another friend. Her friend's friend went into labor THAT DAY in Boston. At the age of thirty, while giving birth, she unexpectedly died and so did her baby.

Now that was a tragedy.

And in a poignant moment I will never forget, I realized that life is all about perspective. And in my case, it took the kindness of a famous stranger to help me see it.

I'll fill you in on my moving saga later.

But before I finish this post, I'd like to lovingly thank my elderly parents for being there when I needed them, at a great inconvenience to themselves. THANK YOU Mom and Dad.

And I didn't shout. Or scream. Or flip a finger at old feather-face. I just stood there and got hysterical. Yes, I couldn't stop laughing - which felt fun - but in the back of my mind, I remembered reading that hysterical laughter over small things - is not a good sign. I repeat, not a good sign.

With my hand on my head, I walked into the bank, and in between uncontrollable giggles, I said to one of the bankers that "a bird just crapped on my head at the ATM, and I NEED A KLEENEX NOW." Then she started laughing, too, pretty loudly for a banker in a gray suit.

She handed me a stack of paper towels, and I wiped myself off with as much dignity as I could muster, and when I left the bank I started to cry on Spring Street. That is when I knew that what I had remembered was right - and I was DEFINITELY out of whack, a little soft in the head, a basket case.

The bird was a metaphor for my life.

For those of you who read my last post, you know that last week I still didn't know when and if I would be moving into my new loft. There was a management switch over - and I had gotten caught in the switch. No screenplay writer or Vegas bookie could have even dreamed up the scenario.

By Monday of this week there was some progress, the new management company had finally received my lease and rent check from the old management company, but I still didn't know when the place would be ready for me to move into. Which meant I could not call the DWP, the cable company, the movers, the housecleaning service, and on and on.

Basically my life was on hold with a LOFT MOVE hanging over my head. VERY STRESSFUL.

It was on Tuesday that old feather-face got me - representing all that was crappola in my life. I mean, even a bird understood that things were just not right.

But by some magic karma - on Wednesday - I found out that my loft would be ready by Friday. The refrigerator would be in, the place cleaned, I could get the keys and move in over the weekend. These new management guys were actually nice to me on the phone. I guess they felt my pain.

And later that day, a friend, who once lived in Italy, told me that Italians believe a bird crapping on your head means "good fortune." So maybe I am lucky. Or not.

Since most of you have been following my tales for awhile now, you're in the loop of my life. At least the cyberspace loop. And some of you - gasp - I even talk with on the phone! So we are looped de looped.

Here's the deal. I will share the whole saga.

Let me start by proclaiming, moving sucks. They (whoever "they" are) say moving is right up there with divorce, getting run over by a car or being hit by a bus. They (whoever "they" are) are right.

Right now, I want my childhood blankie, some hot cocoa (it's 85 degrees out) and a tranquilizer - one that is big enough for a horse.

A little back story. Several months ago my landlord Julio Martinez told me he would be moving back into "his" loft - as you may remember, I wrote about it in Oh-my-God, I've Got to Move.

So, that left me with a couple of choices, move to Hawaii and live amongst the pineapples (I actually considered that on days I was totally into my fantasies), find a new loft in downtown, or jump from my fourth floor nicely arched windows.

I decided to start looking downtown. I even held a contest, where I was offering $100, if you could help me find a loft - which many of you responded to.

I became a woman on a mission. I walked the pavements, read the ads, met wayyyyy to many leasing agents, even took Hal Bastian's bus tour and came home most days crying. This place was too small...not enough light...no parking in the building...and on and on... until...I am sure when some of my friends saw my name come up on their phone - they did not take the call.

"Oh know, it's Nancy, again!" they were thinking. The perfectionist. The one who talks to healers to find out if a loft will appear. The woman who just needs to sign a lease already!

But, I was sticking to what I wanted. No way was I going to spend a bundle on something I didn't like. By the time I had looked at over 50 spaces (yep, 50) - I was ready to call it quits. That's when my Hawaii fantasy kicked it. I'd put my possessions in storage, live in a one room shack (but a nice one) and get Wifi near the beach. Yes, I would write Tales of Downtown about downtown LA from an island. Made perfect sense to me.

Then fate intervened a few weeks ago. A beautiful place in my current loft building opened up as if by magic. And in five seconds (maybe 10), I screamed, "Yes, I will take it." And the manager who no longer is the manager moved mountains to help me stay. So she won the contest. Then she was "let go."

Now, I'm dealing with a new management company with no phone number in Manhattan Beach. I don't know if they have my lease yet, if they even know when I am supposed to move in, if they've cleaned up the place (it was left a real mess by the former tenants), whether they've purchased the refrigerator that comes with my unit, or when they will give me the keys.

All I know is that I sit amongst stacked boxes, with diminishing food in my refrigerator. And that I'm moving downstairs. I think.

When all of this is over - I really will go to Hawaii and not only eat the pineapples but talk to them too.

It had to happen. It was only a matter of time. Okay, before you start panting, here's the story.

As we all know by now, my loft faces Broadway, which means, I look directly into the windows of the Douglas Building. You might remember some of my neighbors (loosely speaking) from my post - I Am Not A Peeping Tom, Not!

Also, as most downtowners in-the-know know - on top of many loft buildings are these fabulous gardens and places to hang and swimming pools, and views to die for.

Well...I have no idea what the Douglas' roof is like - because I've never been there or seen anyone up there, until...I was on the phone last week, yakking away, minding my own business (again), when I looked up in the middle of the day and saw this naked man on the roof.

Granted it was warm out. Granted he was probably just sunning. Granted he thought no one could see him. Granted he was an idiot.

And I was across the street - looking. Telling the person I was talking to that even though this man was hundreds of feet away, I could see the outline of his .... if you know what I mean, and that in a past life I was probably a voyeur.

There he was, naked as a bat, standing up and splashing sun tan oil all over his tall, lean body. I mean, all over. And there I was with my mouth open (since I had gotten off the call quickly), so I could oggle.

Now before you go there - I did not take out a long lens camera, telescope, binoculars, or any other such paraphernalia, I just oggled. Innocently. For an hour or so until he left. And wondered to myself - that it was a miracle - that it took a year for this to happen.

You would think it would have happened long ago. Why?

Because when you live downtown - you face each others windows and with it comes nakedness, my friends, nakedness. In all forms. Nakedness.

And I say, "swivel that in your martini and shake it." Or something like that.

What most of you don't know is that I was born in 1850, and reincarnated as a downtowner. I don't know how it happened but it did.

Maybe it had to do with me leasing a loft last year. Or rising from a sewer hatch on Broadway. Or wanting to be able to wear my Annie Oakley skirt with the two guns and my different color flip flops at the same time - without anyone even paying attention.

I just came back. That's all. With a smile on my face and my very own blog and purple yoga mat.

Tomorrow, February 20th, in my reincarnated state, I will have my next birthday. I will ring in my Pisces New Year with a bang. A party at Chaya Downtown with my friends. Lots of martinis. Lots of laugh lines. Lots of doing whatever I damn well please, thank you very much.

And truth be told, I will exercise my magical birthday powers, too. Instead of moving the clock forward, I will turn it forever young. Since that is how I feel anyway.

I AM FOREVER YOUNG.

In my heart. Soul. Brain. Granola. Friendships. Belly button. Attitude. Whatever I can think of (which goes in and out - if you really must know).

And I will dance down the streets to Petula Clark's version of Downtown and play the lyrics again and again in my head.

Do I look like a pinata to you? No, of course not. But, I did to my future landlord, who will now soon be my former landlord. Obviously, I must explain.

At the end of 2008, I was desperate. I was living with my 89-year-old mother and my 93-year-old father in Century City. How and why I was in that predicament is worthy of an entire Dr. Phil show. Let's not go there.

So what does a desperate woman in a predicament do?

She puts an ad on Craigslist - saying she wants to move to a loft in downtown (clearly it was better than moving to Mars - that's how faraway I wanted to go). By morning, my ad was answered by Julio Martinez. "I've got a place. Meet me at the Pan American," he said.

I did. And one of the first things he said to me when he saw my "colorful outfit" was "you're dressed just like a pinata." Oh well. Just a little rough around the edges. Don't you think?

But, I fell in love with his place. And the rest as they say - is history.

His place quickly became "my place," and filled my soul with the city. From here I've become a voyeur of downtown. A teller of tales. A humorist with a twist. A quirky woman in a loft.

Recently, over the Christmas holidays - almost a year to the day when I moved in - Julio told me he had gotten a professorship at USC and that he needed his loft back by April 19. And since we are a couple by leasing agreement only, I was going to need to find another place.

How sad. How unsettling. How awful.

Now I am faced with the prospect of moving from a loft and neighbors, I love. My compassionate friends - wanting to make me feel better - are saying things like, "Nancy, there is always a reason." "Nancy, your next place will be spectacular." "Nancy you will find magic."

And, I, a trooper, a spirited woman to the max, must gather my wits about me and prove them right. Yes, I will find FABULOUS AGAIN. Convincing myself daily that I WILL. I WILL. I WILL.

My new mantra, my chant.

And the moral of this tale is? Even if a guy calls you a pinata, he can still change your life. Thanks Julio.

I'll be rockin' on.

Nancy just started a HELP-FIND-NANCY-A-NEW-LOFT contest. You can win $100 bucks, a free dinner and more.Find out the details.